Angel's Son
by Scarecrowqueen
Summary: Sequel to 'Graveyard Baby.' Kurt feels like a train wreck, like a speeding bullet, like a victim of inevitability. Puck/Kurt Slash.


Disclaimer: If I owned them, I wouldn't have to write fanfic. Nor do I own Sevendust's epic song, 'Angel's Son'

* * *

If they have nothing else in common, at least there's this: they are both creatures of habit. At least, that's the only explanation Kurt has for why this tentative friendship had been so easy to fall into, why there is a certainty between them that's otherwise inexplicable.

Kurt lies on his couch, back flat on the white cushions and legs flopped over the arm, head turned to the side and nearly drowsing. By his shoulder Noah sits on the floor, legs outstretched and guitar in his lap, strumming his way through his repertoire gently. Kurt sings along softly when he recognizes the tune, shared notes barely daring to fill the space between them. They talk too, obviously, idle chatter as the mood strikes, but Kurt knows it's important when the guitar stops.

Noah always waits for silence to _really _speak.

"You probably know enough to bury me, if you wanted. One call to Jewfro..." Noah lets the sentence linger.

"I'm not that person, Puck."

"I am." Noah's declaration is flat, passionless. Kurt shifts a little, sliding one hand off his stomach to rest on Noah's shoulder, the angle a little awkward but intent obvious.

"You can change the things you don't like, you know."

Noah says nothing, but hesitantly, the guitar strains pick up again.

It's nearly midnight before Noah leaves, declining a ride in favour of walking the half-mile. Kurt watches him go from the front window, his broad silhouette iconic in the dappled yellow lamplight and raven's-wing black.

* * *

It's after Glee, and Puck rides shotgun in Kurt's navigator. He distractedly thumbs through Kurt's iPod before settling it back on its cradle, silent.

"Do you know how I met Finn?" Kurt doesn't reply; he knows he's not meant to.

"Our mom's used to work together, way back in the day. Anyway, my great uncle so-and-so died, and my mom and dad had to go to the funeral. They didn't want a snot-faced toddler with them, so they unloaded me on the Hudson's for the weekend. We spent the first two hours sitting on other sides of the room, too shy to talk, or so I've been told, I don't remember that part. I do remember the epic battle over the red crayon. I kicked him in the face, but only after he'd bitten me. Carole had to drag us off each other to different sides of the house. I remember vowing to hate him forever cause he was a crayon-hogging meanie with sharp teeth, and I did, hate him, I mean, right up until bedtime when we realized we were both wearing the same green Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle footie pj's. By the time my parents came back to get me, we were inseparable. We were three years old."

Kurt risks a look at Noah's face. The wistful smile on his lips holds a bitter edge that Kurt's learned only appears whenever Noah deigns to acknowledge his frighteningly constant self-loathing.

"Well, inseparable until now. I don't even know why I did it, really. Slept with Quinn, I mean. I kinda had feeling for her, yeah, but Finn is my bro. Was, whatever."

"Does it matter now? The reasons why?" Puck half-laughs, and it's forced.

"Most days, I couldn't tell you."

Puck disembarks at his house, raising two fingers to his forehead in a mock-salute, looking back over his shoulder as he makes his way up the walk to his front door. For a moment the sun coming through the trees gives his back the appearance of being feathered, and Kurt likens him suddenly to a proud eagle, wings clipped and sky-hungry, full with the need to soar.

Kurt blasts Sweet Caroline on repeat the whole way home, and tells himself he's still crushing on Finn, because anything else would be madness.

* * *

Finn approaches Puck almost one month to the day after his blow-up in Glee. Kurt wonders if Finn's planned it, but knows that it probably took the Quarterback nearly that long to work up his courage. The boys exchange a couple clipped sentences, before evidently agreeing to take the conversation somewhere less public. They slide into the lunchtime crowd, and Kurt loses track of them in the press of students milling about.

He spends the afternoon tracing the outline of his cell phone in his pocket, both praying for and dreading the coming message. When the device finally vibrates it's after final bell, and he's gathering his books from his locker. The phone is out of his pocket so fast it nearly flies from his numb fingers. The text is comprised of only one word.

"_Cemetery?"_

Kurt exhales, and walks to his car, where Puck is waiting, casually flipping the bird at the backs of a couple members of the Hockey team. Kurt doesn't ask, knowing it may have something to do with their continued association with each other, which mostly baffled and aggravated the general populace. The drive to the cemetery is filled with Kevin Rudolf blaring from the speakers, and Kurt tries very hard to not be charmed by Puck singing along and bouncing to the beat.

They park in front of Puck's house, the mohawked boy ducking inside to make off with two pudding cups and plastic spoons, and Kurt tells himself he'll feel guilty over the empty calories later. The boys cut through the backyard and into the cemetery, cresting the hill to sit at the feet of "their" Angel. The moment they're seated Puck immediately starts speaking.

"I asked Finn why she couldn't be a red crayon." Kurt blinks for a moment, watching Puck shovel the pudding into his mouth with a total lack of grace.

"You mean Quinn? Or the baby?"

"Both, actually." Kurt shakes his head a little, totally lost on Puck's logic. The rakish grin probably isn't helping his thought process much, either. Noah seems to realize this requires explanation, and plows on.

"I had to explain it to Finn too. See, the red crayon, right? When we were three, it was the whole world, and totally worth hating each other over forever. So, I know Quinn and our baby are not crayons, they're people and the whole thing is big and scary and life-changing, but I figure, if he could forgive me for the red crayon that meant everything to us then, why not this thing that means everything to us now?" Kurt opened his mouth, closed it, thought for a moment, and then tried again.

"Noah... there are so many holes in that logic, I don't know where to start. Mostly, you're not three years old anymore. You know right from wrong now, this mess is hardly so simple." Puck smile wilts a little, but his eyes had a bit of a glow the Kurt hadn't ever seen there before.

"I know, and Finn does too. But you know what? He laughed. He actually _laughed_, because he _remembered too_. I know this isn't Hogwarts, there aren't any magic wands here to wave and make things better, but this can still be fixed. The Asshole tax will be ridiculous for a very long time, but that ok, I'll pay it, and I think Finn is finally willing to let me, and if he is, then Quinn won't be far behind, and with them everyone else, right? Some things are worth my badassness, but tell anyone I said that and I'll slushie you with your least favourite flavour." Kurt tried to sniff disdainfully, but the corner of his lip twitched and totally ruined the whole effect.

"So, Harry Potter fan then?"

"Shut up and eat your damn pudding, Hummel." Kurt couldn't stop his smile, nor could he stop the flutter inside like a million wingbeats when Noah gave a crooked smile back.

* * *

Noah is at his most beautiful curved around his guitar, crooning sweetly, lost in his music. Mr Shue had assigned them Tributes; performing a song written for or dedicated to a specific person. Noah had chosen Sevendust, which Kurt recognized as one of the alt-rock groups his friend favoured. He'd been surprised then when the band settled back and only Noah's acoustic accompanied him, long fingers sliding over the neck into notes memorized by long practice. The melody was haunting, and Kurt knew the whole room was spellbound, watching Noah sing; eyes closed, face open.

_You were fighting every day  
So hard to hide the pain  
I know you never said goodbye  
I had so much left to say_

One last song  
Given to an Angel's Son  
As soon as you were gone  
As soon as you were gone

Kurt listens in rapture, eyes moist, until the final notes fade. The applause is nearly reverential, and looking at Puck, shuffling almost nervously as Mr Shue tosses out words like _Regional's_ and _solo_ and Kurt feels like he's seeing the other boy for the first time. Noah sits beside him then, elbows brushing as he lays his guitar to the side. When Puck finally settles, his elbow rests firmly, unashamedly against Kurt's. Mercedes gapes from his other side, but Kurt? Kurt could _fly._

* * *

They go again to the cemetery, three days before Regional's, enjoying an unseasonably pleasant day. Puck lies in the springtime grass, sighing at the feeling of sun on his face. Kurt watches him closely for a minute, before shifting from his seated position onto his hands and knees to hover over the other boy from beside him. Noah's eyes flick open as Kurt's head blocks his sunshine, casting shadows onto his chiselled features, hazel eyes wide and curious. Kurt feels like a train wreck, like a speeding bullet, like a victim of inevitability. His left hand rises to Noah's face and lies against his cheek, Kurt's thumb tracing the full bottom lip. Puck stays very still, eyes just as wide and intent as their moment stretches on. Kurt feels the deep inhalation against the whorls of his thumbprint.

_One last song  
Given to an Angel's Son..._

Puck begins to sing, so quietly Kurt would've missed it if he wasn't only inches away. Those inches disappear though, as he swoops in to taste the song on Noah's lips. Kurt's first kiss isn't fireworks and earthquakes and rose petals, but somehow it's still romance novel perfect like he'd imagined it. Noah tastes like the sharp tang of oranges, and his lips move as gently against Kurt's as the breeze that lifts his hair. Above them their Angel bears unspeaking witness, the only noise is the breath they draw, the wind in the trees and the throaty cries of blackbirds.

When their lips part and he is not pushed away, Kurt slides closer, slipping further into Noah, who feels like music in his arms, like Kurt had caught that high F in his hands and cradled it, triumphant and unstoppable.

Their second kiss is deeper, sweeter, and Noah's hands finally rest on Kurt's back, over his shoulder blades in exactly the spot his wings should be.


End file.
